


If You Forget Me

by Greens



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 07:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greens/pseuds/Greens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was he thinking? What had possessed him to think that Sherlock, as brilliant as he was, would understand what Victor was trying to say, let alone believe it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Forget Me

**Author's Note:**

> Title and poem found within, are from a poem by Pablo Neruda. Written for ImpishTubist who wanted a Sherlock/Victor first kiss fic:):) Comments are LOVE! Enjoy!

Victor Trevor sat on the floor with his back resting up against the side of Sherlock’s bed, a book of poetry sprawled open in front of him. He rolled up the sleeves of his jumper, tossed his head back and let out a groan as it thudded against the mattress.

 

“Must you complain so loudly?” Sherlock asked, adjusting his weight in bed while a chemistry book balanced precariously on his outstretched legs. “Finish the term and you’ll never need to set eyes upon that text again.”

 

“It’s not the text,” Victor sighed. He pushed himself off the floor and made his way over to the window where his satchel was strewn. “The text is fine. It’s beautiful—dynamic.”

 

Victor dug through the bag, coming up with a pack of cigarettes. He turned and offered up the pack to Sherlock. The dark-haired young man shook his head, turning down Victor’s offer.

 

“Tell me then,” Sherlock swung his legs off the edge of the bed and watched as Victor perched at the window and propped it open.  “What is it that’s so troublesome?”

 

Victor lit up, took a long drag and held it in his lungs for a moment before exhaling the smoke out the open window. “Sometimes I think—we’re just reading the words for the sake of reading them. We’re not looking for the meaning behind them.”

 

Sherlock stood slowly and made his way over to where Victor sat. He eased himself down beside the slightly younger man and took the cigarette from him. He took a drag himself before handing it back to Victor.

 

“There’s so much more to this than we give it credit for,” Victor said, shaking his sleeves back down. “Numbers are numbers. No matter how you add two and two together, you’re always going to come up with four. There is a right and a wrong. With poetry, it’s emotions, it’s deeper than an absolute truth.”

 

Victor stubbed the cigarette out on the windowsill and walked back over to where he had left his book. He picked it up off the floor and flipped forward through the pages as he rejoined Sherlock.

 

“Here,” Victor said, coming to a stop on a specific page. “This one— _I want you to know one thing._ “ Victor began to recite.  
  
“ _You know how this is:_  
 _if I look_  
 _at the crystal moon, at the red branch_  
 _of the slow autumn at my window,_  
 _if I touch_  
 _near the fire_  
 _the impalpable ash_  
 _or the wrinkled body of the log,_  
 _everything carries me to you,_  
 _as if everything that exists,_  
 _aromas, light, metals,_  
 _were little boats_  
 _that sail_  
 _toward those isles of yours that wait for me.”_

He looked up from the book and cast his eyes upon Sherlock’s. He swallowed hard before continuing.   
  
_“Well, now,_  
 _if little by little you stop loving me_  
 _I shall stop loving you little by little._  
  
 _If suddenly_  
 _you forget me_  
 _do not look for me,_  
 _for I shall already have forgotten you._  
  
 _If you think it long and mad,_  
 _the wind of banners_  
 _that passes through my life,_  
 _and you decide_  
 _to leave me at the shore_  
 _of the heart where I have roots,_  
 _remember_  
 _that on that day,_  
 _at that hour,_  
 _I shall lift my arms_  
 _and my roots will set off_  
 _to seek another land.”_

Victor’s teeth tugged at his bottom lip. He breathed deeply and shut the book, continuing from memory.   
  
_“But_  
 _if each day,_  
 _each hour,_  
 _you feel that you are destined for me_  
 _with implacable sweetness,_  
 _if each day a flower_  
 _climbs up to your lips to seek me,_  
 _ah my love, ah my own,_  
 _in me all that fire is repeated,_  
 _in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,_  
 _my love feeds on your love, beloved,_  
 _and as long as you live it will be in your arms_  
 _without leaving mine.”_

Victor grew silent and watched Sherlock’s face. It went unchanged; Sherlock only gazed back at him and they exchanged no words. Victor’s shoulders fell and his eyes shut. He took a deep breath and pressed his lips into a tight, thin line. What was he thinking? What had possessed him to think that Sherlock, as brilliant as he was, would understand what Victor was trying to say, let alone believe it? He had made a fool of himself.

 

Victor ran his fingers back through his hair and bounded up where he sat. “I…” He gathered his book and satchel, dropping them both to the ground in his rush. He scooped them up quickly. “I have to go—I…” He paused, gave himself a solid, determined nod and rushed out the door.

 

Sherlock sat back and watched as Victor left and took a moment to assess the situation. Had he done something wrong to upset Victor? What exactly was it that had his only friend so terribly flustered? He had grown close with Victor over the last few months. They had become quick friends, which was odd, because Sherlock wasn’t one to associate with others.  Victor had spoken the words off the page so slowly, deliberately. It was as if, even though the poem was written down, he was trying to find the right way to emphasize what he was saying.

 

It was like a flash in Sherlock’s mind that finally caused his eyes to widen and his jaw to drop slightly. It couldn’t possibly be true, he thought. Could it be that the innocence of Victor’s voice spoke the truth? Sherlock shook his head; he would have known, would have seen it.

 

Or would he have? The idea of love was so foreign to Sherlock. He had never had a close relationship with another person, male or female, in his entire life. Was this what love felt like? When his chest tightened or his breath caught when Victor was around, was that love? When his skin tingled as if he was hit with electricity every time Victor inadvertently brushed up against him, was that what love felt like? Did the fact that his heart ached at the thought of having hurt his best friend, mean that he had fallen in love? Had the only person who ever meant anything to Sherlock, suddenly become more?

 

Sherlock bolted to his feet and grabbed his coat from the foot of the bed. He gracefully shrugged his arms into the sleeves as he headed for the door. Victor wasn’t in class and Sherlock knew exactly where to find him.

 

*****

There was a tree on the north end of the campus. The grass was overgrown and weeds sprung up randomly across the small plot. It was as if the university had forgotten this one particular spot existed, as did everyone else. Nobody ever bothered to pass by there, and that was why, when Victor wanted to be alone, he would find a spot beneath the large, partially rotting tree.

 

Victor sat with his back resting against the tree trunk, pulling at blades of grass. He took slow, calculated breaths in an attempt to keep himself calm. Nothing had gone the way he had hoped and he just wanted to be invisible, at least for a little bit.

 

After a while, Victor heard the crunch of the dried out foliage. He didn’t need to look to know who was standing over him.

 

“How did you find me here?” Victor asked softly, still pulling at the grass around him.

 

“This is your sanctuary,” Sherlock explained. “I know that this is where you come when you’re upset. And—clearly, you were upset before.”

 

Victor still couldn’t look up at Sherlock. “I’m fine,” he lied. “I just I thought maybe—I don’t really know what I thought.”

 

Sherlock shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “Adding two and two together will always result in four,” he said. “There are no questions in that, it’s a fact.” He took a deep breath and set himself down on the ground beside Victor. “I’ve never had friends. Ever since I was a boy, there has never been another human being who understood me, who lived a solitary life, who, like me, was friendless.  It wasn’t until that damn dog of yours latched onto my leg…”

 

Victor’s soft laugh interrupted him and Sherlock smiled, turning his body to face him. This was new for Sherlock and it showed. Never had the young man seemed so uncomfortable.

 

“Facts and figures make sense to me,” Sherlock continued. “I’ve never been good with people, most of them just tell me to piss off but not you. Honestly, Victor, I never understood why didn’t associate with more people.  You’re articulate, intelligent. You should have more friends.”

 

“I have you,” Victor replied as he cautiously placed a hand on Sherlock’s leg.  A small smile crept across his face. “You’re the greatest man I’ve ever known and—the best friend I’ve ever had. I should have never tried to change things. Can we please just—go back to the way things were before I said anything?”

 

Sherlock studied Victor’s face and shook his head. “No.”

 

Victor’s shoulders fell. “Sherlock…”

 

Sherlock took a deep breath, his mind flying, hoping that this was the way things were supposed to go.  With zero experience he was, uncharacteristically, clueless. After a beat, he leaned closer, his lips meeting with Victor’s for one brief, sensitive moment.

 

Sherlock pulled back slowly, his eyes never losing sight of Victor’s as he spoke from memory, “ _Everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me_.”

 

“Really?” Victor smiled.

 

Sherlock nodded. “Of course,” he said. “I would have no reason to lie to you.”

 

Victor’s smile grew brighter. “Think we could go back inside?”

 

Sherlock got to his feet and waited for Victor to join him before heading back onto the campus.

 

“Victor? Are there more poems in that book of yours like the one you read today?”

 

“Sure,” Victor replied. “Tons.”

 

Sherlock kept his eyes forward as they walked. “Would you share them with me?”

 

Victor turned to look upon the other young man. “I would like nothing more.”

 

As they continued to walk, Victor’s fingers twitched to hold Sherlock’s hand, but he fought back the urge to reach out. For now, Victor was satisfied. Sherlock had given him more than enough for one day.


End file.
